Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m not in a very good position for that these days,” Roger replied.

  “But you have a prodigious memory for detail, Roger, and that is a very valuable asset for a man in your position.”

  “And what is my position?” Roger asked.

  “Precarious, at the moment,” Alex replied. “But with your cooperation I would be very optimistic about your future. You should live, at the very least, another thirty years, long enough for inflation to outrun your income, and that would lead to penury. A bleak prospect.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”

  “Fortunately, I am in a position to make your future positively rosy.”

  Roger perked up. “And what would I have to do to ensure that?”

  “Well, for a start, why don’t we give you a nice holiday in a sunny place, all, ah, conveniences provided? We can also invite Jennifer to join you. She’d love that, and she knows how to show her gratitude.”

  “Ah, yes,” Roger said.

  “And let me dangle another prospect,” Alex said. “You might find yourself materially contributing to the downfall, perhaps even the disgrace, of your nemesis, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”

  Roger couldn’t help smiling.

  “Something else: a more recent acquaintance of yours, Mr. Stone Barrington, has come to occupy an influential place in the orbit of the American CIA.”

  “Has he?” Roger asked, brightening.

  “I thought that would interest you.” Alex stood, walked over to Roger’s desk, and returned his pistol to the drawer where he had found it. “Come, let’s go.”

  “Right now?”

  “Why wait? Your luggage is already in the car.”

  39

  An elderly Mercedes sedan awaited them—a large one. Roger was put into a rear seat and found curtains drawn on the windows and on the partition between the driver and the passengers. Roger and Alex were the only two passengers aboard. The car moved off, and Roger soon gave up trying to follow the turns they were making. They were apparently in quite heavy traffic, starting and stopping a lot. Roger thought they might be moving through the south London suburbs.

  After an hour or so they began moving faster and more steadily—on the open road, but not a motorway, he reckoned. More turns were made, and then the car came to a stop. Roger started to get out, but Alex put out a hand. “A moment longer, please.”

  Roger heard a motor start and something was squeaking.

  “Now,” Alex said.

  Roger got out of the car and found himself standing in an aircraft hangar. A business jet of French manufacture, one with three engines, occupied the space.

  Alex came around the car and opened the front passenger door. To Roger’s surprise, Jennifer Sands got out. “Hello, Roger,” she said, giving him a warm smile.

  Roger could manage only a quick “Good morning.”

  The driver went to the car’s boot and began handing suitcases to two uniformed aircrew, who stowed them in the airplane’s rear luggage compartment.

  “After you,” Alex said to Roger.

  Roger allowed Jennifer to precede him, then climbed the airstairs and entered a comfortable cabin. Alex indicated which seat he should take, then took his coat while Roger buckled himself in. The airplane had begun to move, apparently being towed. The curtains were drawn on all windows, and the cockpit door was closed, so he still could not see outside.

  “Am I going to need a passport?” Roger asked Alex.

  Alex patted his breast pocket. “It was in your desk drawer. I took the liberty. It was interesting that MI-6 neglected to reclaim your diplomatic passport.”

  After a short tow, the airplane stopped and an engine started, then another, then a third. They started to taxi. Roger tried to figure out which airport they were on. If they had gone south, it might be Biggin Hill, a former RAF station, which took business jets and was a port of entry.

  The airplane trundled on for a few minutes, then seemed to make a left turn and stop. A couple of minutes passed, and the airplane moved on and made another left. Roger thought they must be on a runway. Confirming his judgment, the engines spooled up to full power, and the airplane soon left the runway. He heard the landing gear and flaps come up. Now they were climbing.

  A uniformed stewardess came down the aisle. “Would you like a drink before lunch, Brigadier?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Your best scotch. No ice.” The whisky she brought was very good, indeed. By the time he had drunk it the airplane had leveled off at altitude, and he was being served chicken Kiev. He wondered if that was a geographical hint. It was very good, though. The stewardess did something at a panel up forward, and the window shades rose. Roger looked outside and saw nothing but sea.

  He finished his lunch, his tray was taken away, and the stewardess brought him a soft blanket and a pillow. He reclined his seat a bit and closed his eyes.

  Roger was awakened some time later by a jerk as the landing gear came down. He checked his watch: they had been in the air for more than two hours. The airplane touched down, and he was able to see buildings and other aircraft, some of them wearing Russian insignia. They taxied to a halt on a ramp and were unloaded into another large car. They left the airport and drove along the sea for three-quarters of an hour, then pulled into a gated driveway, drove up to a large white house, and stopped.

  Someone opened his door, and he got out. Alex led him into the house, down a central hallway to double doors that opened onto a terrace; beyond was a beach and the sea.

  “Welcome to Crimea,” Alex said. “This house once belonged to an archduke.” He led Roger on a tour of the place, then took him upstairs to a large bedroom with a terrace opening onto the sea.

  Jennifer had joined them. “Would you like me to stay here with you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I would,” Roger replied.

  “You have a nap, and I’ll unpack for you.”

  Roger stretched out on the bed and was soon dozing.

  * * *

  —

  Roger stirred. The room was darkened, though there was daylight still coming through a crack in the curtains. He felt a hand on his crotch and did not disturb it. She unzipped his trousers and unbuckled his belt, then pulled his trousers down a few inches and took him into her mouth. She didn’t stop until well after he had climaxed.

  * * *

  —

  They had a shower together, then dressed for dinner, and went downstairs. Alex awaited them on the front terrace at a beautifully set table. A bottle of wine rested in a cradle, and a bottle of Talisker single malt scotch whisky, was next to it. Alex poured them all drinks. He raised his glass. “To new friends,” he said. They drank.

  Soon caviar arrived—Beluga, the real thing, half a kilo of it. Roger hadn’t had any for many years, and he washed it down with iced vodka. Chateaubriand, the best part of the beef tenderloin, was the main course, served with Béarnaise sauce and haricots verts. Dessert was a delicious cake served with a dessert wine.

  They took their cognac in the library, a large room with many bound books, mostly in French.

  “What do you think of our little cottage?” Alex asked when they were settled.

  “It’s bloody marvelous,” Roger replied, replete with food and drink.

  “You will have access to it in the future,” Alex said, “from time to time, if all goes well. And I’ve no reason to think it won’t go well.” He waited for Roger to respond but got only a contented groan. He pointed across the room. “There are the books in English. They were chosen by Kim Philby.”

  If Roger had been slow on the uptake that would have brought him up short. “Ah, yes,” he said.

  “Did you know Philby, Roger?”

  “Oh, no. He was before my time. Everyone who knew him spoke of his charm and wit.”

  “He spent a n
umber of holidays here. Once we had his friend Guy Burgess for a visit, but he was so drunk all the time I doubt if he remembered it later. He wasn’t invited back.”

  Alex got to his feet. “Well, I’m going to turn in. It has been a long day. You two finish your brandy.” He gave a little bow, then left the room.

  Jennifer leaned over and whispered in Roger’s ear, “Don’t say anything in this house or on the terraces, unless you want it recorded,” she said.

  40

  Jennifer shook him gently awake at eight AM. He shaved and showered, then was called to breakfast on the terrace—lots of smoked fish, eggs, and salads.

  “It’s time to go downstairs,” Jennifer said. “Alex is expecting you.”

  Roger took a seat across from Alex at a small table in the library, in a nook overlooking the sea. It was a windy day, and there were whitecaps to be seen.

  “Now,” Alex said. “You are being recorded, of course.”

  “Of course,” Roger replied.

  “I am going to ask you many questions,” Alex said. “If you answer truthfully and give me your best recollections, we will not have to accomplish this interview by other means.”

  “All right,” Roger said.

  “What is your first memory of being at the Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth?”

  “Being in a fight,” Roger replied without hesitation. “An older boy tried to bugger me in my bed, and I gave him a bloody nose. I wasn’t bothered again.”

  “Describe the first meal you ate there.”

  “I arrived in the late evening, so my first meal was breakfast. I was given kippers, which I did not like but learned to like, a fried egg, and a piece of toast, tinned orange juice, and strong tea.”

  “Describe your first class at Dartmouth.”

  “It was an orientation class. We were shown a slide—an aerial photograph of the school—and various places were pointed out on it. We were given a rule book and told to memorize it before the next day, then we were issued uniforms and taught how to wear them properly.”

  “Who was the first other student you met?”

  “Timothy Barnes,” Roger said. “We got on immediately.”

  “Did you have a homosexual relationship with Tim Barnes?”

  “No, but I knew he was queer.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Something in his manner toward me. He realized at once that I was not queer, and it never came up again. I knew he had dalliances with some others, though.”

  “Did you keep a diary or journal?”

  “I did for a few days, but we were kept very busy, and I discovered, anyway, that I was not a good journal keeper. I preferred to rely on my memory, which is excellent.”

  “What did you excel at when you were at Dartmouth?”

  “There was no one thing, but I was good at everything they threw at me.”

  “Were you promoted while a student?”

  “Yes, but always just behind Tim. He was a more attractive personality than I, and I knew it, so I felt no resentment. He finished as the student commandant, and I was his executive officer.”

  * * *

  —

  Alex droned on with his questions, as much to get Roger comfortable with answering him as to glean actual information, since most of it was in Roger’s dossier, anyway. He was impressed with the clarity and accuracy of Roger’s answers.

  He took Roger through his early assignments after graduation, then suddenly asked, “Who was Simon Garr?”

  Roger blinked and took a moment to answer. “He was a class ahead of me at Dartmouth and we shared some assignments afterward.”

  “Did you know Simon to be homosexual?”

  “I surmised it. He was the boy whose nose I bloodied my first night at Dartmouth.”

  “Did you ever report him to a superior as being queer?”

  “No, but I let him know that I could, and if I did, he would be cashiered.”

  “Did you use this knowledge to extract favors from him?”

  “Only once, when a promotion was at stake. After that he was very helpful to me without being asked, because he knew I could destroy him, if he crossed me.”

  “Were there others, like Simon, in this position?”

  “Oh, yes. I seemed to have a gift for spotting them, and I always found a way to let them know I knew. They were very helpful throughout my career.”

  Alex changed course. “Describe the entryway into the offices of MI-6.”

  “There was a front door, but it was infrequently used by officers. On my first visit there I was told to knock at a rear door in an alley off Shaftesbury Avenue.”

  “Was there a code pad for entry?”

  “No, just a knocker and a small window. The door was opened by a commissionaire—you know what a commissionaire is?”

  “Of course. Describe the man.”

  “Imposing. Six foot three, sixteen stone, florid complexion, gray hair, quite fit for his age.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I never asked, and no one ever told me.”

  “Describe the route to the director’s office from that rear door.”

  “Elevator to six, right turn, thirty feet down the corridor, double doors to the left.”

  “And your office?”

  “Another thirty feet beyond those doors, facing the corridor.”

  “What was on the subbasement floors?”

  “A canteen and the armory; that was all I ever saw there.”

  “What weapons were you issued?”

  “A Colt Government .380 with a silencer, a switchblade knife, and a holster that held all of it.”

  “When you left the service were they reclaimed?”

  “Yes, on the way out the door.”

  “But not your diplomatic passport?”

  “No.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “I gave it no thought until I took it out of my pocket and left it in a desk drawer in my flat. I assumed I’d hear from them about it, but I never did.”

  “Keep it. It could come in handy,” Alex said. “Describe the director’s office.”

  “Big. I should say twenty feet by thirty. A large desk before the windows, with facing armchairs, fireplace at one end, with a seating area; conference table and chairs at the other; naval art on the walls, probably from the National Gallery and the Admiralty; a large, very fine carpet, filled most of the floor; various cupboards and closets behind paneling, probably a lavatory behind a door.”

  “What are the electronic defenses of the building?”

  “They were not in evidence, but probably rather carefully concealed. I should imagine that the latest in surveillance equipment and recording devices are used.”

  “All speech is recorded?”

  “That is my assumption. It was never mentioned to me. Rather like this house, I should think.”

  * * *

  —

  The questioning continued until lunch, then resumed and lasted until six o’clock.

  But there was more to come.

  41

  Fife-Simpson was wakened before dawn, told to dress immediately without showering or shaving, and given a one-piece, sleeveless boiler suit to wear. There was no breakfast, not even juice, and Jennifer was nowhere to be seen.

  Two large men hustled him to the basement of the building, and he was shut up in a small, brightly lit room containing only a steel table and chair, both bolted to the floor. Two other chairs rested opposite. There was a mirror at one end of the room, which Roger assumed was two-way, with observers on the other side. None of these features engendered confidence, and he was vaguely anxious.

  The door opened and slammed, and the two men who had escorted him to the cellar came in with a man Roger had never seen before.
They entered the room and slammed the heavy door behind themselves. Bolts could be heard sliding shut on the other side. The two men, one on each side, fastened Roger’s wrists under steel brackets and locked them to the table with a key.

  The new man was about six feet tall, slender, had a completely bald head, and wore a brown suit and heavy, black-rimmed eyeglasses. “Now,” he said. “Alex having failed to extract truth from you, we will employ other means.”

  “But I have told you the truth!” Roger nearly shouted, but the men ignored him. The two men brought chairs to the table and placed them on either side of Roger. One of them produced a medical bag and opened it to reveal a selection of numbered bottles and a box of syringes. One man removed a blood-pressure kit from the bag, fastened it to Roger’s arm, and pumped it up. Then he wrote the results on a clipboard. He said something in Russian to the other man, who selected a bottle from the bag, uncapped a syringe, and half-filled it with fluid. He wiped the inside of Roger’s elbow with a cotton swab, slapped the vein to bring it up, then slipped the needle into the vein and began pressing the plunger on the syringe.

  Roger felt a surge of warmth through his body, so much so that he began to perspire. He slipped into a half-conscious state and felt his heart begin to race.

  “State your name,” the interrogator said.

  “Roger Terrence Fife-Simpson.”

  “Your age?”

  “Forty-nine,” Roger mumbled. Someone slapped him smartly across the face. “Speak clearly,” the man said. “You are not unconscious.”

  “Forty-nine,” Roger said again, trying to enunciate precisely.

  The interrogator began to ask questions about random subjects—his childhood; his first assignment with the Royal Marines; the first, second, and third women he had had sex with; the kind of car he drove; where his suits were made; questions about Station Two and the attendees. They seemed particularly interested in Stone Barrington and would not accept that his presence there was the result of a wager. They demanded every shred of information he had about Barrington and the female doctor he had met at Station Two. They questioned him about the location and style of Barrington’s country house and demanded detailed descriptions of the rooms he had entered.